


Two, Faithful Patrons of the International House of Pancakes

by dashielldeveron



Category: Red Letter Media, RedLetterMedia RPF, redlettermedia
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, Maybe - Freeform, december 2003, manic mike is starting to calm down just a smidge, terrible flirting, young mike stoklasa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashielldeveron/pseuds/dashielldeveron
Summary: Simple love story! In the houuuuuuse...of pancakes.Mike calls in a favour. You're perpetually busy with school, but you always have time for him.Except when he's being a little bitch.
Relationships: Mike Stoklasa/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	Two, Faithful Patrons of the International House of Pancakes

“I’m not gonna be in your fucking movie.”

Mike grinned toothily at you from across the rounded booth as he stirred the ice in his cup with a straw. He jabbed it twice, not tearing his gaze away—ducking his head slightly to stare up at your through long, smoky eyelashes that caught the fluorescent lights of the IHOP.

“Listen, Mike,” you said, setting down your fork to sit in the pooling syrup on your plate, “You’re goddamn lucky you were able to get a hold of me at all. I have a hard deadline in three days. I don’t have time to be in anything.”

“You’ve got time for me.” Mike tapped the back of your hand with his straw, leaving Coke droplets. “ _Fuck_ your advisor. Fuck ‘im. ’S’not my fault you’d suck his soul out of his cock for your fucking degree.”

“ _Fucking_ hell, I’m just trying to take my education seriously. And with a shred of integrity,” you said, and, seeing your crumpled napkin, you reached for his unused one to wipe off your hand. “No cocks are getting sucked.”

“Shame,” he said, shaking the ice in his cup before raising it to his lips, “I know a guy who’d be interested.”

“Yeah, you and the greater Chicago area.” Sighing, you rubbed one of your eyes. “You’ve got me out this late. Tell me about the movie.”

Mike’s brown eyes lit up as he laid out the plot—well, more of a concept, really. He hadn’t written the script yet, but he had ideas for characters—an overly proper English gentleman, a carpenter with a saw fetish, someone who eats maggots. Honestly, it wasn’t the best, but Rich alone could make the worst idea hilarious (insert boobery).

And, to get to the bare bones about it, you fucking _adored_ listening to Mike talk. The two of you lived in completely different worlds, and you liked how frazzled you got adjusted in the swop, frazzled by the transition from hard-core, highfalutin academia, with so many end notes and bibliography entries that your eyes began to blur, to cooking chilli in a gorilla suit.

But the main thing was that Mike hadn’t forgotten about you. He kept you in his life, even though you were off in grad school, and he was making films in _various_ backyards and basements now, not just his parents’. When he picked you up tonight from the library, it had been just like it’d been in college—sneaking glances at him in the city nightlights as he drove and sang along to the radio under his breath, talking shit about whatever girl he’s dating and what’s showing at the movies, and you, along for the ride, smiling, breathless, and watching his hand that lay between the seats, fighting the itch to bring his fingertips to your mouth to kiss them.

He didn’t know. Or maybe he did and was just being difficult about it; you wouldn’t put it past him. He’d stolen your fucking heart in freshman comp, when he proved to be the only one with a brain, let alone sense and snark, and once he’d gotten over how embarrassingly bluestocking you were, he let you in. Somewhere along the way, you’d been marked as—well, you weren’t sure, but it was probably something like Incessant Prude, Unfuckable, Do Not Even Try.

But Mike had kept you, and that never failed to make your face warm and chest incredibly tight.

Which meant you were fighting back laughter when the waitress picking up your plates had made shocked eye contact with you when Mike talked about leaving out rejected meat from the butcher shop to see if he could get real maggots. You nudged him and told him to use his inside voice.

Even though it’s so late that the IHOP has no other patrons, Mike slid around the booth until your thighs were touching to whisper, spit going into your ear at his harsh, exaggerated _s_ s.

“Not what I meant, Mike,” you said through a smile, and you put your hand over his face to push him away.

You could feel his grin under your palm when he said, “Jesus, woman, make up your mind.”

“So, spit it out. What do you want me to do?” He nibbled his lower lip and glanced at your lap before you added, “In the movie. I’m not ripping up a rotisserie chicken again.”

Mike grinned, the teeth marks in his lip fading from white to pink. “Jay’ll be _glad_ to do it. He’s the one who wanted more gore.”

You scoffed. “Liar.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s me,” he said, clasping your leg just above your knee (you jumped; new, yes, please), “You know _Ghostbusters_?”

“I’ve been around you for more than thirty seconds, yes.”

He squeezed your thigh. “So, _you_ —I want you to play something like Gozer, at the end—”

“Hell _no_ , Mike—”

“It would only be in one scene! It’s a joke part, a schlocky cameo—”

“I’m not wearing—give me a reason why you need _me_ to play it.”

Mike tilted his head back, his jawline growing more defined, as he narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. You bit your lip as he crossed his legs so that one ankle rested on a knee and raised his hand to his chin in mock thought. “Well, two things, really,” he said, looking at you out of the corner of his eye, “You’re the only person with real theatre experience I know, and you’re the only theatre-y person I can stomach. I’m not gonna go schmooze with bullshit actors with heads up their asses. They’re fucking hacks, all of them.”

“Sure,” you said, “That’s fair. You can get someone else, though. Rich could do it, easily.” You had to squint when headlights from the parking lot turned your direction. “God, turn your brights off, you fucking moron.”

Mike turned in that direction, and he held a hand up over his eyes, his sharp nose wrinkling. “Seems like there’s a fleet of them. If it gets too loud, we’ll leave, okay?” He looked towards you for the last bit, his voice soft.

You couldn’t move for a beat, what with his dark, doe eyes boring into yours, and he was so, so _close_ ; your lips parted on impulse. Don’t look at his mouth; don’t look at his mouth; don’t look at—

“I’m not being Gozer,” you said, ducking your head so that your eye line was the booth cushion over his shoulder, “I’m not wearing—that bubble wrap costume. You’ve got to have some ulterior motives you’re not telling me about it.”

“ _Ulterior motives_? I have _no_ ulterior motives,” said Mike, and, in an exaggeratedly tardigrade manner, he stretched, popped his back, let out a groan that made your stomach jolt, and laid his arm behind your shoulders on the booth. The curve of his watch face pressed into your upper arm. He sneered in the direction of the door, where a gaggle of raucous and gaudily dressed high schoolers bustled inside. “She’s wearing fucking tinsel,” said Mike, unabashedly pointing towards a kid waiting to be seated.

Frowning, you inched closer to him when some of them walked by. “It’s either their homecoming or a prelude to an orgy.”

Mike let out a burst of laughter loud enough to make them stare, and then he clapped his free hand over his mouth to suppress it. Shit, that’s a real tragedy. Mike had a gorgeous smile. Without thinking, you slid your fingers partially around his wrist and drew his hand from his mouth and into his lap, where you held it still. Closing his mouth and quirking it into a half-smile, Mike raised an eyebrow at you.

A _bang_ from a high school table made the both of you jump ( _towards_ each other, you might add. His arm slipped to clutch your shoulder on instinct, and upon discovering a kid had popped a chip bag, you both relaxed. You didn’t stop leaning into him. He didn’t move his arm.). Another group of them trailing in glared at the two of you taking up the only round booth in the place, but Mike jerked his chin up and said, “Yeah, keep walking, you cocksucking ingrate. Leave us alone. I hope you die.”

Oh, he’s perfect.

You wanted to pepper his face with kisses until the tips of his ears turned red and then bite those.

“That’s right, you ham-hocking motherfucker. So,” said Mike, directing his attention towards you, “C’mon, baby, play Not Gozer for me.”

“You,” you said, your throat running dry and feeling terribly pathetic about it, “You think with that magic word that I’ll bend over backwards for you—” Mike’s eyebrows flashed upwards. “—but you’re gonna have to try better than that.”

“Hmm.” Mike narrowed his eyes and tapped his fingers on your shoulder. He’s quiet long enough for a high schooler in a bright blue suit to compare their dance to _10 Things I Hate About You_. “That’s enough,” he said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive you back to your apartment or the fucking library, if you prefer.”

Oh, here he goes. “Mike,” you began.

“No, I get it. I get it,” he said, retracting his arm, “You’ve gotta study. You’re too damn important to hang out with us now, with me, now that you’re off being a grad stupid. Are you majoring in being a flaky bitch?”

“ _Michael_ ,” you said, “Film is fucking forever. I don’t want video of me clad only in bubble wrap with red food colouring in my eyes writhing to the sounds of a plagiarised John Carpenter score in the hands of my future employers.”

“It wouldn’t be red food colouring,” Mike said, scoffing, “You can get red contacts.”

“I don’t know how to put in a contact lens.”

“I’ll do it for you; it’s easy,” he said, twisting his arm to lift his eyelid and pressed a finger to his eye, but you yanked his hand down.

“Not in here,” you hissed, “It’s fucking filthy.”

Mike let his arms plop to his sides, one falling on your leg, and he huffed, his eyes following yet another bunch of kids finding a table.

“Listen,” you said, dumping his arm in his own lap, “I’ll decide during the car ride. I’m gonna refill my lemonade, yeah?”

He nodded once, and you jogged to the drink machine with your cup. You had to wait in line, though, because some loser in platform flip flops couldn’t decide between strawberry and orange fanta.

Someone prodded your back. “Hi, honey.”

You flinched. Oh, God, get away. Glancing over your shoulder, you turned to face some slack-jawed, gum-chewing bastard with broad shoulders and a white suit over a red t-shirt. The guy waiting behind him threw his arms into the air and returned to a table.

“What did you call me?”

“Tonight, if you like,” said Broad Shoulders, and he jerked his thumb towards a full table, “Me and the guys are gonna get together after this, watch _American Beauty_ in Rob’s basement _._ Maybe _Varsity Blues_. We’re flexible.” He stepped closer to you, and again, and you backed away. His eyes flitted up and down your body and said, “Though you’re probably a _Titanic_ sort of girl.”

“I’m,” you said. This doesn’t happen. This never happens. No one has ever hit on you before, ever, so you’re not prepared. Just your luck it’s a high schooler (a gross one. One who needs to floss). “I’m fine, thanks,” you said, furrowing your brow, “I’ve got someon—”

“What? _Titanic_ is doable. Very doable. Lots of things are doable.” Smooth. He reached for your arm, but you jerked away, hitting the wall by the drink machine.

“I invite you to fuck off,” you said, scanning him for weak points, but his pants were so low-crotched you couldn’t really decide where his cock would be—

“Hey, gorgeous,” called Mike, striding towards you, and before you could say anything, his hands _grabbed_ your face, and his mouth’s on yours, immediately opening and flicking his tongue against your teeth to part them.

It was hard for you to notice every detail: Mike sliding one hand through your hair to the back of your head and the other down to your hip—he nipped it, using his grip to pull your hips against his, and let his hand wander to the swell of your ass. He was warm, his mouth burning when his tongue brushed the roof of your own. He tasted sickly sweet from syrup and lightly nibbled your lower lip when you eased your hands from around his neck in different directions, one to thread through the short hairs at the nape of his neck and one down under his collar, between his shoulder blades. Mike hummed when you tightened your grip on his hair, and by the hand on your ass, he pressed you closer, backing you into the drink machine.

Mike broke the kiss, gently shushed you, and kissed you again, and he curled his fingers to grip your hair to tilt your head back. He kissed the corner of your mouth, your chin, twice on your neck, keeping it dry—he turned his head towards the high schooler and rested his cheek on your neck. “Don’t you have some pancakes to jerk off into? Or are you just warming up from dumpster diving for pepper flakes, you cum-gargling dipshit?”

Blinking twice, you swallowed drily, and you felt Mike’s chapped lips press against your larynx.

“What the fuck,” said the kid, turning around “All you had to do was say no.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Mike, his voice rumbling against your skin, “You stupid idiot.”

Counting to three, you sighed, which got cut off by a sharp inhale when Mike gave the same spot a suck. “I guess…I guess I’m not a _Titanic_ sort of girl.”

Mike pried his mouth from your neck and blew cold air over the wet spot. Laughing, you flinched away and knocked into the spout for strawberry fanta, and a cold spurt rushed down your back.

Mike was giggling all the way to the car, but he took off his hoodie for you once you shimmied out of your stained sweater (“You’re wearing a colour!” “It’s been a while since I’ve done laundry,” said Mike, plucking at the collar of his green, long-sleeve shirt). You pulled on the black hoodie and zipped it up, pulling it up and taking in how the inside smelled: kind of gamey, but also like whatever Old Spice Mike was currently into.

Mike opened the car door for you, bowing at practically a ninety-degree angle, and you grinned, biting your lip. You threw your backpack in the backseat atop a hot glue gun and a bundle of fireworks, and you slid two fingers under his chin to lift it, his eyes fixed on yours, and he’s _smiling;_ he’s not covering it (it’s loose; it’s a free-range smile; it’s imperfect and toothy, but it’s rarely given, and it’s for _you_ , and it’s blinding). Mike leant into your hand like a goddamn cat when you moved to smooth down his cowlick.

“I don’t think I can be Gozer,” you said under your breath, “but I can bring my books to your place. Study there. If you want.”

He moved your hand from his hair and kissed your palm with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Besides, the worse the movie is, the funnier.”

“I’ll take it,” said Mike, and he placed his hands on your shoulders, cocked his head to the side, and pulled the hood over your head, cupping your face afterwards and leaning in. “There’s not many ways it can go right.”

**Author's Note:**

> we love a hack fraud.


End file.
